


Queen of All Time

by Osidiano



Category: Final Fantasy VIII
Genre: Archetypes, Artistic Liberties, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Game Novelization, Hallucinations, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mental Instability, Military Jargon, Mind Games, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Romance, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2003-05-08
Updated: 2005-11-23
Packaged: 2018-04-19 15:21:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4751279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osidiano/pseuds/Osidiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Squall's memories are delicate, and he only keeps the ones that don't hurt. He has Griever to take care of all the rest.</p><p>In which Squall plays all the roles asked of him, from Black Knight to Garden Headmaster, from squad leader to friend to lover, because he's always been good at playing a part to get the mission done.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Voice

Cold Eyes doesn't mind the scary people in the Rooms we have to go to everyday. I mind. I mind a lot. They're scary. Real scary, and they're always talking, but they don't say anything. They don't ever say anything, even when they try to ask you questions. You can't hear them; you can't understand them. It's like trying to listen to a mute. So I think the Rooms are scary, and I don't like going into them. But Cold Eyes doesn't mind, and Cold Eyes says — sometimes, to me — that we have to. It's part of our job. I don't like our job; I don't know what we do. Cold Eyes says — sometimes, when I'm not being ignored — that I don't have to like it, or know. Because Cold Eyes says that I don't know anything; I'm too stupid to understand so I shouldn't talk. That makes me sad, when Cold Eyes says that. Real sad. So I don't think that I like Cold Eyes sometimes. I don't like Cold Eyes when he's

_(she's, its)_

being mean to me. But Cold Eyes doesn't like me at all, so it's okay.

I guess that Cold Eyes isn't so bad after awhile. Cold Eyes is Cold Eyes, and nothing can change that. I know that Cold Eyes likes some weird, scary things, but Cold Eyes isn't a bad person. It doesn't make Cold Eyes a bad person. And Cold Eyes is smart. Real smart; the smartest person I don't really know. Because nobody _really_ knows Cold Eyes. And I don't think that anybody should, or should want to. But some of those people in the Rooms? _They_ want to know Cold Eyes. I think that's bad, because Cold Eyes doesn't want them to know either. Cold Eyes likes being mysterious. I think that means that she

_(he, it)_

likes being scary. Because I think it's scary that Cold Eyes likes solitude; likes being alone. All alone. Without anybody there. That's why Cold Eyes doesn't really like me; because I'm _always_ there.

. . .I don't like being alone, because I think it's scary. Cold Eyes says that I'm stupid for thinking that; for being like that. But Cold Eyes doesn't really talk to me, because Cold Eyes doesn't like me. Cold Eyes wants me to be all alone, like the way I used to be. But that was scary. Real scary. So I don't like that, and I tell Cold Eyes that I don't ever want to be alone again. Not ever. And that's when Cold Eyes _really_ gets mad at me; when I try to say things back. Because it

_(he, she)_

isn't talking to me, so I should just be quiet and go away. That's what Cold Eyes says when I do that.

Cold Eyes hit me once, when I did that. It hurt. A lot, and I didn't say anything for a long time. I just started crying, because I was sad, and I was lonely, and my face hurt. Cold Eyes hit me again then, harder, and told me to be quiet. That time it hurt more, and I couldn't stop crying. So Cold Eyes said that I didn't have a reason to be crying, and Cold Eyes kept hitting me for awhile. And then Cold Eyes was done, and Cold Eyes left me alone. Cold Eyes just let me cry for awhile. But it wasn't for very long, because Cold Eyes doesn't like it when people cry. I think it's because he

_(she, it)_

can't. So Cold Eyes gets really mad when other people do.

But Cold Eyes isn't a bad person, and Cold Eyes isn't violent. Cold Eyes just doesn't like me, and that's okay. Because, sometimes, I don't really like Cold Eyes either.


	2. Repetition

Nobody ever talks to me, not even when we go to the Rooms, or stand outside of them. The scary people just pretend not to notice me, and that makes me sad. Real sad. I don't like being sad, or lonely. I want to talk to people, and I want to smile, and laugh. If I could smile, or laugh, then I wouldn't have to cry all the time. Cold Eyes wants me to stop crying too; and Cold Eyes even told me that once. It meant a lot to me; that Cold Eyes was willing to talk to me. And Cold Eyes. . .Cold Eyes was even nice to me, when he

_(she, it)_

told me that. I was happy. Real happy. I almost thought that I could smile. Almost, but not quite.

Sometimes I wish that I were more like Cold Eyes. Because everyone talks to Cold Eyes, even when Cold Eyes doesn't want them to. And everyone wants to be friends with Cold Eyes, even though Cold Eyes hates them. All of them. Cold Eyes once said — not to me — that all the people in the Rooms were stupid, and. . .and then Cold Eyes used a big word that I didn't understand. I got confused, but I didn't ask what it meant. Cold Eyes went on to say some other things, one of which I think had to do with everyone copying each other. She

_(he, it)_

called it 'conformity'. I remembered that word. I thought it was a fun word.

Conformity: everyone is the same person. And they are all dying. But they're too stupid to realize it, and so they're all happy.

I wonder if conformity happens when no one in the Room is real. . .?

* * *

Cold Eyes felt tired, drained and lifeless. A kind of morose depression was setting in today, biting through the lofty walls of defense to his nearly broken and half-corroded mind. Thoughts shifted lazily, a lethargic crawl, towards his subconscious, seeking some solace. Perhaps they thought a symbolic haven lay there, in the darker recesses of his psyche where the shadows overlapped and meshed till the once-ordered boundaries became no more. That was a possibility. However, had escape been their sole motivation, it was in his most humble of opinions that they should have been moving a bit faster. He wanted to see the little bitches run.

A listless sigh, and he turned his half-lidded gaze to the floor, one hand coming up from his side to rest on his hip. Something else was stirring, rousing itself behind his vivid eyes. It rumbled, it purred; it very nearly burbled. The thing — a giant, a leader, a king; the God of what was left of this mind — stretched, retractable claws grazing a dozen forgotten memories, and he held back a shiver. It was awake; hungered and annoyed by the unfortunate being that had the unpleasant task of disturbing it. The Beast was awake, and right now Cold Eyes didn't want to deal with the consequences of —

_("Pay attention.")_

There was a little boy next to him, scowling as he crossed his arms over his chest and pretended to ignore all three of them. Cold Eyes turned his head then, banishing the monster back to its confines — the chains, the cages, the pretty metal collar that fitted loosely around its neck — in the same movement. The hand on his hip slipped off, falling back to his side, and he redirected his gaze to the. . .'individual' standing before him.

_("This is important. Do you mind?")_

He heard thick sarcasm, got the impression that it was evident in the facial expression when the sound returned, now different, still the same. He said nothing to it, simply watched, waiting. The other — a smear of white ink on dark paper; an intense hallucination — shifted, glaring. A silence ensued, until after several long moments, it began again.

_("Well?")_

Cold Eyes considered answering, looking over his shoulder to the people who weren't quite there; walking talking living dying . . . could they hear, could they speak? Can they see, can they care? Hazy, like bloodied watermarks across his line of vision, and he thought he felt the hallucination reach out and touch him, so warm it was almost human. It was almost alive. Again, half-lidded eyes moved back to that. . .'person.'

"I'm listening," a soft mumble, too audible for his liking, and the white-shadow relaxed. It seemed to smile, pleased with his answer. Leaning back slightly where it stood, it surveyed him, empty eyes digging deep. It was taking in something as it continued, something vitally important to both existences; something so valuable and irreplaceable that it could not be named, that it was above all manner of definition. Cold Eyes thought for a moment that he might, at some point in the vague future, miss that elusively precious _something_.

_("Good, because I hate it when you don't.")_

"You're getting on a tangent. Stop it," Cold Eyes snapped, voice low, near silent and still too loud. A black and oily hand rubbed at his face, fingers straying towards his eyes in the act. He wanted to leave, to go. . .somewhere. Maybe the 'where' didn't matter; maybe he could figure it all out later. Just so long as it was real. He was tired. . .so very tired of being in those not-quite there places, with their not-quite alive inhabitants and not-quite right methods. He was so sick of being the only person who could speak and hear that he almost longed for company in his solitude; someone other than the bright phantom and the angry little boy to share the void with.

_("And? I bet you don't even remember what we were talking about in the first place.")_

". . .That's not the point."

_("Something on your mind?")_

Cold Eyes was silent, debating the question. There were several things _in_ his mind, _feeding_ on it, but he didn't think that his companion much cared for conventional technicalities. He shook his head once, the movement causing his dark brown hair to further fall over his pale features. Again it smiled, though this time the action was coupled with an odd noise. Cold Eyes was reminded of the strange burble The Beast made until he realized what the sound was. The 'individual' was laughing at him.

_("You lie like shit and you didn't even say anything.")_

". . .It was none of your business."

_("Yeah yeah. . .Anyway, I gotta get to class; damn old bastard said the next time I'm late he's just gonna kick me out, and I don't feel like seeing that uppity bitch this early in the morning. I'll see you at lunch if you don't plan on chickening out.")_

The white-shadow hit him hard in the shoulder as it walked away, and Cold Eyes waited until he was sure it was gone before reaching up to gingerly touch it with the opposite hand. There was already a bruise there beneath his dark jacket; a single mark encompassing his entire left arm. But the sickly injury was fairly old, and in need of renewing. Perhaps the bruises were a way of insuring his acceptance of the challenge, although that would have been more than redundant. . .

Because the Black Knight never — _ever_ — refused to fight Fate's noble hero.


	3. Change

The little boy was fidgeting — wringing his hands as he bit his lower lip, tears streaming down his face — by the bed when Cold Eyes woke up. In truth, those soft hiccups that always followed the little boy's broken sobs were what had roused him from the dazed black of his unconscious. Turning his head slightly to better see the boy, Cold Eyes watched him shaking, saw pale hands go up to cover wide and fearful eyes. He watched the little boy shift uncomfortably on the short stool where he was seated, gaze following as his younger companion tried to wipe the salty liquid from his face. Bright light came in through the curtainless window, and Cold Eyes sat up.

There was a sharp pain between his brows when he did so, and he reached up to his forehead in confusion. He felt his fingers brush across a wet and slightly sticky bandage, half-numbed hands sliding along the gauze that encircled his head, angling down and covering his right eye out of necessity. Vaguely, as if through water, he heard someone speak, head turning automatically in the general direction of the voice. Standing next to the boy was an older woman, her greying hair piled in a neat bun high on the back of her head. She was smiling, arms crossed over her chest.

"It's about time. Come on now, say your name for me," she had said, tilting her body back against the wall as she waited for his answer. Cold Eyes looked away. What was his name? The name the little boy urgently whispered to him now didn't feel right, didn't seem to fulfill the request. A word, something he was called, danced outside his reach briefly until he felt the familiar presence of ice in his mind, murmuring the correct reply.

". . .Squall."

"Good. So how do you feel, Squall?" the woman — _the doctor_ , the ice told him softly — straightened, looking over him critically. Squall paused again before answering the question, thinking of how and what to say. He wanted to know why his forehead hurt, wanted to know if she knew what happened. But he didn't want to ask, and so chose a different response.

"Fine."

"That's all, just 'fine?'" she said, watching him strangely, then shrugging it off and walking back to her desk. "If you say so. . . You need to start taking it easy in training, though. Next time you might not be lucky enough to get away with just a scar and a couple burns." Squall jerked at that last statement, another abrupt surge of pain when he did so, and his hand fell from his face to rest on one knee. A scar? He was going to have a _scar_? With a heavy groan, Squall slowly eased himself back on the bed, laying an arm over his now-closed eyes. He didn't _want_ any goddamn distinguishing marks. . .

"Let me guess. . . you were fighting with Seifer; again. Do you realize that the only time I ever see you is when he drags you into my infirmary?"

_Maybe he just likes seeing me high on the morphine you pump into me, you heinous bitch._

"Have you ever even tried ignoring him, Squall? Or at the very least telling him that you don't want to fight?"

". . . I can't just run away." From where the doctor was sitting, Squall could hear her tapping the small phone on her desk rhythmically with a pen. She was thinking about what he had said — he knew that — and it bothered him. Why should she care, anyway? It was none of her business whether or not he fought with the white knight in his spare time. Hell, they weren't even fighting. They were _dueling_.

"So, you wanna be cool, huh?" and here the doctor chuckled, shaking her head as she picked up the receiver and began to dial. "Well, I guess boys will be boys. . ." Squall scowled, shifting his arm to glare at the smudged reflection in the glass wall next to the bed. His mind drifted away from the doctor's casual conversations restlessly. He wanted to leave. To get out and move and. . . and what?

_"So we meet again, Squall. . ."_

A slow blink, and he refocused his vision to look at the girl on the other side of the glass. From somewhere in the back of his subconscious — slowly drifting out of the ice — he recognized her. He remembered seeing that sweet smile and those soft, brown eyes. The ice moved, bringing cold limbs up to ward off the idle inquiries, trying to get away. It did not want to give anything back to him, did not think that it was needed. _She's not important, you don't need to know her_. . . it said, quietly brushing frigid fingers through his mind. He shuddered involuntarily, looking back to the ceiling as a sign of reluctant consent.

The infirmary door opened with a soft mechanical hiss, the light click of heels on the clean-swept floor Squall's only warning of an entry. He heard a woman's exasperated sigh, the same sigh he heard everyday, third period, at least once a day. The woman — _your teacher, Squall_. . . the ice informed him, the touches almost a caress by this point — walked to the side of the bed, leaning over slightly to look at him. She had a mother's look about her, like she was here to see her son rather than her student.

"I knew it'd be either you or Seifer," she said, crossing her arms over her chest before taking a step back. "What am I gonna do with you two, hm?"

_You could always kill us._

"Can you make it back to class?"

He narrowed his eyes, brows furrowing for a moment before he winced, waiting for the throbbing pain to subside. His teacher smiled, shaking her head knowingly as she turned from the bed and headed back to the door. Unsteadily, he got up to follow her, teeth digging into his lower lip with every step. He had to shift most of his weight onto his left leg, knowing that his limp was agonizingly clear to anyone, to everyone. The ice pressed its gently burning lips to the inside of his skull in hopes that it would deaden the wound, but to no avail.

Squall brushed the silent voice aside, banishing the ice and all its searing cold to the back of his consciousness, turning his attention to his chattering teacher:

"—xam's today. Is there anything you want to talk about, Squall? You look like you've got something on your mind."

_Why does everyone ask me that? If I wanted to say something, I would._

"No, n—"

"Not really," she finished in unison with him, trying to suppress a fit of giggles behind one hand and failing miserably. Squall bit into the side of his tongue, vivid eye scanning down the length of the bright hallway. He hated it when she played this game; she didn't even do it right. But maybe Seifer was right. . . maybe he should be a little more unpredictable. He stood there, head cocked to the side with one bruised and bandaged hand on his hip as he glared back at her.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, nonono! Sorry. . ." she took a moment to compose herself enough to speak before finishing with a radiant smile. "I'm just happy, Squall. I'm starting to feel like a know you a little."

_You haven't got a clue._

Turning, they walked in silence for a short way, until the lack of sound began to grate on Squall's nerves. His teacher — _Instructor Trepe, Squall_ , the ice said, in all its infinite patience — was usually talking, and when she was just watching him, quietly watching and smiling at him, it was irritating. It almost made him want to hit her. Instead, though, he broke the silence:

"I'm more complex than you think."

"Then tell me," was her immediate response as she took his hand and stopped walking. "Tell me more about you; tell me all about yourself. Tell me _everything_."

_Even if I told you, you wouldn't know me. You wouldn't understand. Nobody could ever understand. I don't want you to know me. Stop pretending you care, and just leave. Me. Alone._

"It's none —"

"Of your business," again, she ended his sentence with him, and again she didn't notice his dark glare because she was laughing too hard. Wiping happily at her watering eyes, Instructor Trepe continued down the halls with him, giggling and smiling like —

_Like she was on a date with her goddamn boyfriend._

"Oh, come on, Squall! You know I'm just playing around; can't you at least _try_ smiling? For once?" she pleaded as they stepped onto the elevator for the second floor, knocking him lightly in the arm and painfully aware of how he flinched at the contact. But Squall just stared ahead, that apathetic, rigid look unmoving — and totally unnerving — on his red and blistered features.

"Is that an order, Instructor?"

"No, Squall," she said with a sigh, stepping out into the second floor hall when the doors opened again. "It's not an order; it's just a request. . ."

He didn't bother to respond, knew that it wasn't really necessary. She wouldn't expect him to anyway. He was glad; now she'd shut up. Now she'd stop trying to play this game with him. She could never really play any of _their_ games right. There was always something wrong with the way that she went about it, like she wasn't quite sure how it was supposed to be done. It didn't really matter, though. Instructor Trepe paused just inside the door, smoothing her skirt as he walked into his third period class.

All sound died at his entry.

 _Oh fuck you. Fuck_ all _you bastards. I don't look that damn bad._

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Squall limped over to his seat in the back of room, ignoring the stares of his fellow students. His teacher was still standing there, offering him a sympathetic smile before addressing the class:

"Well, since I have your attention, we'll end the lesson with the alternate schedule for today, and only today, class," the smile that touched her lips grew. "The field exam for SeeD will be taking place later this afternoon. For those who are not participating, you are to remain here in study hall. All field exam participants will have free time until the exam. At sixteen-hundred hours you will meet me in the entrance corridor. I will announce the team assignments there." Instructor Trepe removed her glasses, leaning back against the door frame. "Now then, if there are no questions, you may be excused."

The words barely registered with him, and he made no active show of acknowledgment when she asked him to stay after class for a few minutes. He simply kept his head down.

_("Hey, pay attention.")_

Squall jerked, looking up and to his right at the owner of the voice he couldn't hear. His vivid gaze passed a dirty uniform and an oddly out-of-place grin before meeting with a pair of sharp green eyes with a white butterfly-stitch between them holding a deep gouge shut. A hand reached out then, flicking the bandage on his forehead lightly with a laugh.

_("Nice scar, Leonhart.")_

He blinked slowly, confused, as the white shadow — the hallucination seeming more real than the little boy and the ice, in a way — left, still snickering at its own private joke. Again his hand came up, touching the gauze covering his right eye, fingers barely straying over the bridge of his nose where it was wet. It was red. Squall stared, not-quite fascinated as he rubbed the liquid — just enough of it there to taint his fingertips — between thumb and forefinger.

_It's bleeding again. . .?_

"—quall? Are you listening to me, Squall?"

Instructor Trepe was sitting on the edge of his desk now, hands folded in her lap. He dropped his hand, wiping the blood off on his pant leg. The Beast was awakening now, letting out a low growling sound, like a big cat's attempt at a purr. Squall nodded, trying to block out the rumbling in his mind.

"Will you tell me what happened then? You know it's my job to ask," she quickly added at his dark look. "And besides, I'm worried about you. I know that you two fight all the time, but it's never been this bad before. What on earth got you two started _this_ time?"

Squall didn't say anything for a long time. He just closed his eyes and turned his face towards the floor. The cut was throbbing again; the unspoken words and unfelt touches from the ice doing nothing to soothe it. Another deep rumbling, retractable claws digging into long-forgotten thoughts and memories with agonizing clarity, and he held back the look of pain and sound that threatened to press pass his lips into reality.

". . . Nothing," he murmured as he touched the chains and pretty metal collar that fitted loosely around their necks. "It's none of your business. . ."

She said something when he stood, reached out to him when he walked past her to the door, but he chose not to hear her through the roar of his own psychosis.


	4. Tension

_"Who's he?" a disinterested question, apathy taking the form of a little boy, his pale hands lost and hidden in the folds of the woman's dark skirt. His eyes were wide, puffed and bloodshot from too many tears; gaze unfocused, as though he saw the world through a fever-tainted nightmare. He looked sick, pathetic and unnatural. The child — a blurred smear of deathly color and false life — had that crazed looked about him, almost as if someone had reached out and taken him by the collar of his grungy yellow t-shirt and beaten every last semblance of sanity from his frail little body. "Matron. . .?"_

_"Nobody. You don't need to know," the woman answered him, bringing attention to herself. She had no face, only a soft featureless oval framed by long black hair. The flesh was turned down as if she could see the boy without eyes, just as she had spoken with no mouth. Around them the hazy green of ivy and old leaves decayed, drifted to the ground on the ghost of a long dead breeze. She placed a gentle hand on the boy's head, and he looked up to the tattered 'Nobody.'_

_"No. . ." it whispered, voice choked and hoarse as it took a slow step back. It stumbled, strange sword falling from shaking hands to clatter loudly on the stone path. The fear was nearly electric in the air, tension emanating out from the Nobody like the blood that poured down its ashen face, partially hidden by portions of matted brown hair._

_"You don't belong here. . ." she told the Nobody, her voice sad and seeming so faraway. It gave the impression that her face would have mirrored the tone had it been able to. One of her hands was petting back the little boy's messy hair, the other hanging limply at her side. "Please. . .you must leave."_

. . .Griever.

_The Nobody did not turn as it tried to run away, as it tripped on the stairs leading out from the garden, knocking the door open as it spilled onto the wooden floor inside the house. It pulled itself the rest of the way in, scrambling back in desperation, still staring at the two. The door fell shut again, conversation playing back to Nobody like a broken record, skipping parts and falling into place with ease._

_("You don't have to worry; that boy won't go anywhere. . .")_

Griever.

_("I know. Poor thing. . .")_

**Griever!**

The illusion shattered then, cold eyes snapping open in pain as those claws found purchase within his mind. A sharp inhalation escaped him, something akin to a gasp clawing its way out of his throat, body hunching over the porcelain of the bathroom sink. His knuckles popped under the bandages as his grip on the edge tightened, skin paling to pressure white beneath heavy bruises. The Beast — the lord and king of his subconscious — screamed at him, the soundless noise rattling through his skull as teeth tore into the memory, ripping through the boy and woman in its ravenous hunger. His knees felt weak, and he started to fall. . .

_("Am I. . .all alone?")_

Squall slowly opened his eyes, thoughts fuzzed and uncertain. He was lying on the bathroom floor, tiles cool against the scar tissue covering his back as he blinked up at the ceiling light. The question 'why' loomed foremost in his mind, but was still lost in the pounding migraine that had followed. He did not remember what had happened, only that he had removed the black towel from the mirror to survey the damage done to his face and then. . .nothing. No black period, no void, no waking dream or bizarre hallucination. There was simply nothing between seeing his reflection and finding himself on the floor.

He groaned, using the counter to pull himself up to his knees once he had managed a sitting position. A moment later found him struggling to stand. Those coldly vivid eyes brushed passed themselves in the mirror, caught and focused briefly before moving on. He did not remember the woman or little boy as The Beast settled itself into its drowsed sleep-state once more, a low rumbling purr at the back of the brainstem as if to signal its satisfaction.

* * *

Squall did not like Philip Grien. Philip Grien was an egotistical elitist asshole who talked too much. But Squall sat with him in the cafeteria anyway, and had done so since the summer exams had been held. And that was where he was currently: seated at the 'Elite' table with others like Philip Grien as he boredly listened to them complain about Garden regulation, and how much they disliked the student body. Particularly the students who had been skipped ahead, or given any other such 'special' treatment.

The victim of the moment was their youngest instructor, Quistis Trepe. One of the members of the group tossed down his fork in irritation, glaring at the others as he spoke up in her defense:

"You guys. . .just drop it. She's not that bad, and I'd rather have her teaching me than the Bherlzen Beast." The Bherlzen Beast being a nickname for the old, grouchy woman teaching Advanced Chemistry to new SeeD candidates. At the comment, a boy with a pinched, rat-like face on Grien's left snickered, his bony hand coming up as though to hide the reaction from them.

"Yeah, I bet. . ." Philip scoffed, tilting his head up and to the side as he tapped Squall's arm with the back of one hand. "Hey, Leonhart; did you hear about McCoer's test score for the exam? He _totally_ bombed it."

Squall gave no sign of acknowledgment, though he did notice that the young man who had first spoken was now looking down at the table guiltily.

"Geez, McCoer, you'll _never_ make SeeD now; you're always too busy thinking about _her_ ," another of the assembled boys, this one with a plain face and high falsetto voice, piped up. "I mean, _come on_! Are you really gonna throw away your entire career, all for one woman?"

Squall stood abruptly, lunch tray in hand, and when Grien looked up at him questioningly, he only offered a light shrug and quiet, "It's almost time," to which the young man nodded. Grien and one of the others got up with him, disposing of their trays and heading to the Garden entry for their team assignments.

Quistis was standing in front of the downstairs directory when they arrived at the entrance corridor, Grien waving to Squall as he went to his own third period teacher. Only twelve students had passed the written exam this year, and the mortality rate to death or simple failure on the field exam was at an impossible high. It would not be surprising if none of them passed. . . _Hush_ , the ice whispered to him, comforting. _You will succeed in this_. . .

Quistis called his name like laughter, beaming when he stopped in front of her. She was excited to be here, he knew that. This would be her first time grading the exam, though Squall was uncertain of whether that was a good or bad thing. She took a moment to examine the clipboard in her hand, one finger trailing along a list of names and numbers until it found his, tapping it lightly.

"Let's see now. . .You're with. . .Zell Dincht," she said, blinking a little as if adjusting to the idea. "Well, he's a rather lively fellow —"

_He's not lively, just loud._

"— Zell! Over here, Zell!" she shouted to his teammate who, as he turned to look, was standing over by one of the many plants along the side of the corridor, mock fighting with a fern. Upon hearing his name, the boy grinned, straightening his arms as he performed a cartwheel that ended in a backwards round-off flip in their direction. He was shorter than either of them, with blond hair spiked up in the front and almost childishly wide blue eyes that seemed to scream of raver-punk, as did the blatantly obvious tribal tattoo that was etched down the left side of his face in black ink.

"Woah! I'm in a group with _you_?" he rubbed his palm on the leg of his uniform, then extended it eagerly to Squall, who let out a soft sigh before looking to Quistis. Zell seemed to falter, but it was only a moment, and then he was talking again. "Man, you look like shit! I heard that you got in a fight with Seifer this morning; heard he whooped ya pretty bad, too. That's were you got all those, right?"

". . .We weren't fighting. We were sparring," it was a small lie, an easy lie, and only one person in the entire world would have known that it was not the truth. They had not been sparring, or even dueling; not this time at least. He _had_ wanted to kill Seifer that morning, and that was why he had stopped him in the hall on the way to second period, had told him where and when — ten minutes, training hall, mountain course — to meet. It was done spur of the moment, which was an odd enough thing for Squall to do that Seifer had not questioned him. But it was needless to say that it had not quite gone the way he had not quite planned for it.

"Yeah, well I betcha —"

"Ah, boys?" They both stopped, mouths closed as they glanced over to hear her out. She hid a smile behind her hand, double checking her clipboard. "That Seifer you're talking about? He's your squad leader, and he's right over there."

Fate's noble hero, the blinding shadow with his long jacket and heavy sword, came to them as though he knew he had been mentioned, sauntered over like a king among fools. Stark, blurred and vivid, Squall looked away, brought a hand to the butterfly-stitch between his brows. He had not bothered to fix the gauze after he had taken it off in the bathroom earlier, had just settled for the small bandage instead. It was good enough for the white knight, after all.

"You've gotta be kidding me. . ." Zell groaned, one hand on his hip as he slapped the other over his eyes and leaned his head back. A dark glare was shot in his direction by the large young man at the knight's side, and when the little teen took no notice of it, the hallucination had to bring an arm up as a barrier.

"Well, this is definitely going to be an adventure in tolerance. Good luck," she was talking to the newest arrival, hugging her clipboard to her chest.

_And here it comes:_

". . .Instructor," the wait at the beginning was calculated, just long enough for him to get a sweetly acidic tone with her. "I hate it when people wish me luck. Save those words for a bad student who needs them, eh?"

She returned the tone in her expression, nodding a little to show that she fully understood. "Alright then." There was a brief pause, too short even for thought but present nonetheless. "Good luck, Seifer."

"Is this everyone?" an older man in a red vest had walked over, pushing his thin framed glasses higher up on his nose as he surveyed them. His appearance had forced Seifer into an angry silence, those sharp green eyes still fixed on their instructor as though his will alone could cause her to drop dead right then and there. The older man — _Headmaster Cid_ , the ice pressed — smiled benignly, almost as if he were seeing his favorite grandchildren on holiday instead of getting ready to give a group of mercenary soldiers their obligatory pep talk. He cleared his throat with a small cough before beginning:

"As I'm sure you've heard, this exam will involve twelve members from Squads A through D. . . You are heading out on a real mission and the battles, obviously, are for real. Be careful," he stopped for a moment, looking at them with thoughtful amusement. "Life and death, victory and defeat, honor and disgrace; each of these go hand in hand. There's only one way or the other. You will either come back with all the glory of SeeD, or you will not come back at all. All of you are aware of the dangers involved in becoming SeeD. But are you sure? This is your last chance to step down."

Cid was leaning forward, peering into the faces of his students questioningly. Squall turned his head slightly to glance over at Seifer, found his action greeted by a smirk, and quickly averted his gaze. The knight was laughing at him; it thought that he was going to chicken out. Gritting his teeth, he tried not to let it show. He was not afraid of dying, but the prospect of failure seemed insurmountably terrifying right now.

"— fail, and these members will get the job done. They always do. Well, that's one less worry on your mind now," Cid crossed his arms over his chest, taking a deep breath. "The pride of Balamb Garden is SeeD. Learn from them, obey their commands and accomplish the mission through cunning and teamwork. Prove that you are worthy of becoming a member of SeeD. Best of luck to all of you. Move out."

He nodded to the assembled teachers, who reclaimed the authoritative positions over their respective groups. Quistis motioned for the three of them to follow her as she led them down the hall towards the Garden parking lot at a brisk walk. It hurt to keep up with her, but Squall could feel the white knight watching him and stiffened. He moved faster, carefully hiding the limp in his long strides. The last thing he wanted was to miss the exam because they had sent him back to the infirmary.

"The three of you make up Squad B. I'll be the instructor in charge," Quistis was saying, or babbling, Squall could never tell the difference with her. She opened the back doors to one of the SeeD cars, motioning for them to get in. "Try to remember that teamwork is of the utmost importance while you're down there. It'll affect your grade more than anything else."

"Listen up, shit-for-brains! 'Teamwork' means doing what I tell you, when I tell you, and staying the hell out of my way. That's a Squad B rule; don't forget it!" the hero warned, baring his teeth menacingly at Zell, who brought his fist up as if to punch their newly appointed leader. Seifer just laughed, shoving the small blond to one side as he got in the transport vehicle. Zell slammed his hand against the inside of the door as he got in, grumbling. Quistis just rolled her eyes, climbing in after Squall.

The trip to the Balamb City harbor was not a long one, barely more than a fifteen minute ride over the Alcauld Plains which surrounded the Garden.

* * *

"Squall."

He was trying not to pay any attention to the sound of his name being spoken, half-lucid gaze currently focused on a dent he had found in the bottom of the SeeD transport. The spot was located between his feet; his legs spread slightly to accommodate it, head down and face obscured, elbows on his knees. On the floor to his left was the little boy, sitting cross-legged on the metal and propping his forehead up against Squall's calf. It was a small dent, only noticeable to him because he had been staring at it since he had sat down.

"Yo, Squall."

The white knight, in all his victor's glory, his not-vain affirmation of perfected humanity and moral engineering; was lounging directly across from him — assuming, that is, that it was possible to 'lounge' on a metal bench affixed to a wall — in his seat, right ankle resting on left knee as he bounced his weapon of choice off one shoulder. Fate's noble hero had not spoken since they got inside; instead favoring him with a sidelong glance and smirk every so often.

_Arrogant bastard._

Beside that vibrant hallucination sat their instructor, who was going over something on the clipboard in her lap yet again. Those papers were probably their grading sheets, the thought of which caused Squall to hold back an involuntary shudder. He hoped that they were not being tested quite yet. Otherwise, they were going to fail before ever reaching the battlefield.

"Hey, show me your gunblade, will ya?" the voice belonged to Zell, who was currently seated next to him and being incredibly annoying. Squall closed his eyes, sorely tempted to just smack the living hell out of his companion. "Come on, man; _please_? Just a peek?"

Squall ignored the request.

"Tch, fine. . ." he rocked back in his seat, thumping against the wall of the transport loudly. A tremor ran down Squall's hand, made his fingers jerk at the sound as he fought down the sudden impulse to reach out and strangle the little brat. "Yeah, yeah. . .why you bein' so selfish? —"

_Why are you being so stupid?_

"— Scrooooooge!"

_Moron._

"Just leave him alone, Zell. Squall isn't a very. . ." Quistis searched for the word as she cleaned her reading glasses. "Ah, _sociable_ person."

"So?" Zell leaned back from both of them so that his shoulder was jammed into the sharp corner of the transport. It could not have been a very comfortable position. "Come on, Squall; s-say somethin', will ya? W-what's on your mind?"

The stutter in the boy's voice — because Squall certainly _thought_ of Zell as a boy, regardless of the fact that they were the same age — prompted an automatic response:

". . .No—"

"Nothing!" Quistis cut in, finishing in unison with him. He shot a dirty glare in her direction, but she had looked away to cover a girlish giggle with her hand. His eyes caught on a twitch and silent curse from the pale apparition before both were hidden away under that confidently relaxed mask that the knight always wore in mixed company. Squall allowed some of the stiffness to ease out of his shoulders, content with the knowledge that his rival agreed with him: she never could play any of _their_ games right — the thought wholly childish and possessive.

Sienna-blue met vivid green then, filled with life and dreams and so much more, crashing the ideals he found within against the wall of morbid realism that Squall had built up over the years. The white shadow did nothing, was apparently unruffled by the obvious illness — soulless sicknesses bleeding out through the skin, staining hands and clothing — housed within his companion. Squall narrowed his eyes slightly, felt the pain between his brows as a harsh reminder of their battle, and stopped. He finally looked away, fixed his sight on the dent between his feet again.

The ice rushed to him, frigid hands brushing across the scar in hopes of numbing that pain, softly caressing his mind. He repressed the urge to shiver at its touch, settled instead for just closing his eyes. Its lips brushed across his thoughts, tainting them with the chill frost that followed it everywhere. It. _It_. That word, that thought, stretched first and foremost in his consciousness. It. The ice seemed to recoil, to draw into itself when he thought of it like that. _Not it_ , it would say, would hiss if only the words had some sibilance. _Never it. I am 'she.' I am 'her.' Do you not remember?_ Another moment would pass before the acknowledgment, that brief nod telling it — her, now — that he understood.

He was pulled from the mind he had retreated into when he heard the knight shift, the sound followed by the thump of the hero's heavy blade against the bottom of the transport as he leaned forward. The knight began to speak — though not to him — and Squall paid little notion or heed to the words, listening only to the tone of voice. It sounded mocking, jeering; something playful in that bullying manner. And like any child Zell rose to the bait, shaking with anger and indignation as he tried to make a comeback. It apparently did not work because now the hallucination — that fever dream which compelled the knight in existence — was laughing, head down as though to give the boy some last fleeting glimpse of honor before ripping it away.

"So scary. What, you gonna hit me? Ooo, I'm shakin' now," Seifer went on to say, the sarcasm thick enough to choke on. Zell either did not notice or did not care, it was hard to tell — because he stood, bouncing on his toes. The butterfly steps sounded loud and clunky on the transport floor as his fists came up to chin level, as if readying for a fight.

"You're damn right I'm gonna hit ya, jackass! Nobody calls me 'chicken!'"

Seifer was about to response to that threat, but Quistis sighed and hit him in the shoulder with her clipboard, and he stopped. "Knock it off. Both of you," she ended that with a glare. Zell gave the white knight the finger and fell back into his seat. Fate's noble hero just laughed, laying the Hyperion across his lap as he ran a hand over the flat of the blade.

". . .Instructor?" Squall asked after a long pause, looking up. She tilted her head to one side, a tiny sound of acknowledgment escaping her. He took a deep breath before posing his question, careful not to look at the other two young men in the transport. "Who was that girl in the infirmary this morning?"

"Was someone else in there? I must not have noticed," she replied thoughtfully, gazing up at the ceiling as if perhaps the answer had been written up there by some wayward student. "Why? Is there a problem?"

Squall shook his head, and went back to examining the dent between his feet. He heard the apparition across from him snicker.

"This is great. . .fuckin' great. I've got a six-year old Chickenwuss and Mr. Puberty in my squad. Better look out now, Galbadia!"

Quistis put her head in her hands, as Zell made another crude, angry gesture aimed at Seifer.

"Shove it, dickface!"

"Can't you two get along just this _one_ time?"

" _No_." They answered, glaring at each other. Oh yes, it would be a _very_ long fifteen minutes to Balamb City.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Waking](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6750367) by [Osidiano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osidiano/pseuds/Osidiano)




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